Cock and ball…

Life, love and bollocks has turned in to just bollocks of late.

There is still life and by that I mean I am alive, there is love, not in the romantic sense but love all the same but most of all there are bollocks and plenty of them.

By bollocks I mean bollocks, actual bollocks you know the meat and two veg variety.  I haven’t had my hands on any of these bollocks they have just arrived in my inbox, as bollocks often do.  Apparently?

I am going to confess right here, right now that I am struggling to find things to say about the bollocks.

For example; this morning I had a picture message from a guy I had been talking to a while back, I won’t bother to try to explain who he is, as it is barely worth the effort but suffice to say we met and were supposed to meet again and very nearly did but he was a bit too crude for my tastes and so I became very lapse at replying, hoping that would be hint enough and it was, it seems, or at least until this morning when he sent a picture of his nicely washed, neatly pruned and very erect penis.

It was an upshot, the whole package balls and all, up and ready to face the day ahead.

When I first delved into online dating I was nice, polite and oh so charming.  Now I am hard, harsh and bordering on rude, in an offensive way not in a sharing parts of my body kind of way.

I realise that some people do find all this sexting, texting and very intimate sharing all very sexy and fun but me, well I just find it a bit boring if I’m being totally honest.

At first I will admit there were a few people with whom I did share a certain kind of message every now then and it can be fun in the right circumstances and of course if you feel comfortable but there in lies the problem, at least for me, I am not entirely comfortable with it.

Why?  Well, I can’t think of any reason other than I am a bit shy.  Maybe just a bit old-fashioned?

I’d quite like to get to know you a bit, you know a bit of chat about this and that, start with some goofiness, lead on to flirting and then you can start misbehaving…

I don’t know if I’m shy, perhaps not 😉 but I do just find it all a bit awkward.

It is the readiness of it all I struggle with.   I’m not sure I want to see any old Tom, Dick or Harry’s goods, thank you but it seems I do not have a choice.  They do not come with a warning, although just the fact that you have received a picture message is usually warning enough.

I am a sharer by nature and can quite easily hog a conversation and often do (I should think about that a bit more sometime), it is not intentional but I get carried away, I love to chat, to talk and to laugh and tell stories, I like to amuse but I am quite secretive.  The buddies would probably disagree with this but that is exactly my point.  I have known the buddies a long time now and we see each other everyday, practically therefore, I do not have a problem divulging my innermost thoughts, among other things, with them.  I probably share a little bit too much sometimes but it’s girl talk.

If and when I have been in a relationship I have of course indulged in a little sauciness, I am not adverse to it.  I do however, like to feel there is a little more going on other than the need to continually stroke someone’s ego.

After all these years I am well aware that penis’ come in all shapes and sizes and am of the opinion that if you seen a variety you have a rough idea of what to expect.

I have a rough idea of what to expect.

However, you are not being shown the penis so that you decide whether or not it is suitable for your vagina.  You are being the shown the penis because the male is horny and would like to masturbate and therefore the male is trying to engage you, he wants you to  respond with a picture of your vagina, so he can visualise where he would like to put his penis, then before he goes to work he can unload and set off with a spring in his step.

The male obviously has a lot more time on his hands than I do in the mornings!

Which leads me to ponder on why you wouldn’t just have a little look on porn hub, select a video of your choice and get the job done, without feeling the need to irritate me.  I have lunches to make for heaven’s sake.

This morning’s picture was for all intent and purposes a ‘nice’ picture of a healthy, robust looking penis, it was just the sort of penis you would like to wake up to in the mornings and I confess that for a split second my eyes sent a little..   Mmm, that’s nice to my brain, at which point my brain fired straight back with, Jesus Christ! What am I supposed to say to that?  I haven’t even had a coffee yet.  

Leaving my phone on the side as if to contemplate a reply I continued on with the morning, trying not to let my libido get the better of me.

I have no idea what to say.  Ooh that’s lovely!  Or,  Oh wow what a delicious looking cock!

Sorry, not going to happen.  I just can’t bring myself to schmooze like that, it is just so not me.

I would be more likely to say;   That’s nice baby but I’d rather see it under the breakfast bar than over the wi-fi, hope you can drive ok with it!  Or  Great angle gorgeous, looks lovely and smooth, you must have been in the shower ages. 

I don’t reply.  I just don’t have the words.

Over the last week I have been talking to another guy.  Although, it’s safe to say we  hadn’t messaged very much, his conversation was not exactly riveting.  So I was surprised once again when on Sunday I started getting shots of his body.  He has a nice body and he is clearly very keen for everyone to see it.  Shot one was him on a sun lounger, bare-chested with the caption;  enjoying the sun.  Shot two was similar, a shot of him standing, still bare-chested and still obviously enjoying the sun.

No other messages came my way that day, I’m not sure what he was expecting but he got.. Lovely, I hope you have sun cream on? 

He said he would send me more later!  Oh goody.  I can’t wait.

I said,  Why? I’m not interested in making a pin-up calendar, it’s really not my thing. 

Not the response he was hoping for I suspect.  Haven’t heard from him since, I’m gutted as he seemed so intelligent too.

I read an online article the other day that men are taking double the amount of selfies as opposed to women now, especially the naked variety.  I would say this is probably true, I have seen my fair share of online dating profiles now and I would say that there are far more naked men than there are naked women.  While I realise it is far less revealing for a man to be bare-chested than it would be for a woman, it does not alter the fact that a lot of men have headless, naked torso shots as profile pictures.

I love a naked body, I love bodies full stop and neither do I see myself as a prude but I have got to be honest and say that I can not tell by your headless torso if we will have anything in common and neither quite frankly do I wish to find out.  I will enjoy looking at your headless torso, I am not dead but it will not make me want to message you, I will be content to have a look, make a suggestive comment, to myself, and move on.

I have got to have a bit more than that.

The thought that half the female population has been gifted your cock by way of a virtual greeting card really is quite a turn off.

Your body is fantastic babe and I’m sure it would look bloody lovely in my bed but please tell me there that there is a little bit more to you than that.


The good old days…

A lot has changed since I was a child.

Well, it was a long time ago, so it’s to be expected I suppose. I grew up in the 80’s the days of frizzy hair, lace gloves and jelly bags. They were good days but everyone’s childhood should be filled with memories of good days. Your childhood is your time, they will be the fondest memories you have as you grow old, hopefully.

School days spent talking pop idols, choosing your favourite band member and defacing your school books with I ❤ John Taylor. Smoking was very fashionable as was glue sniffing, not that I partook in the latter it just didn’t seem very glamorous to me. Sitting in abandoned garages, of which there were plenty, sticking your head in a plastic bag.

The days of having to go and knock for your friends if you wanted to see them or even speak to them. Mobile phones, although the idea was out there, were not considered entirely mobile. It is weird to think that car phones/mobile and even the internet were all born of the 80’s, they seem like such a new thing even now, despite being readily available to everyone. Not a luxury anymore, more of a right.

In the 80’s anything seemed possible and everything was big.

Hair was big, clothes were big, computers were ginormous, everything was booming. It was becoming possible to see more of the world by way of television. Television of course had been around for a while but in the 80’s TV seemed to become more youth orientated.

MTV was a revelation and music videos were my first love. Oh how I wanted to star in a music video, to be aboard that yacht with Duran Duran, draped over the rails in a lime green swimsuit, my sun-in soaked hair blowing in the breeze.

At the time, as with most children I suppose, you barely appreciate the freedom, lack of responsibility and the joy of just being footloose and fancy-free.

As I grow up I realise how similar I am to own Mother and by reflection as Elsie grows I can see how similar she is to me. I see things in her that I can remember in myself as a girl her age, her obsession with stationary for example, her loyalty and her love of music.

Tom is at present more like his father, I am not sure if this is just because he is a boy and he has his father’s devil-may-care attitude but there are definitely similarities, some of which I am not keen on, it has to be said. He is though a sensitive and loving boy most of the time although he has a temper, the like of which will be difficult to manage when he is an adult.

Believe it or not I was a very sensible teen, I had a boyfriend for most of it, which rather than lead me astray kept me actually very sensible. At the moment both Tom and Elsie seem to be going the same way, although boyfriends seems to be a long way off for Elsie but on the whole I have no real complaints about their behaviour.

People have very conflicting ideas these days about how children should be raised but overall we all raise our children loosely based on how we were raised, or at least I do.

I didn’t have a lot of freedom to come and go as a child, despite living in a fairly safe, working class area of a fairly large town. There were rules to follow, place I could go and couldn’t go, I had a curfew for which the cost of breaking it far outweighed the pleasure of having an extra few minutes at the end of the evening. Generally I stuck to the rules.

Growing up my own Mum was the heart of the family, what she said went. She ruled the house with a my house my rules phrase that has stuck with me all these years later. We were under no illusion that Mum was in charge and even though Dad was very clearly the head of the family he left all the ‘child related issues’ to my Mum, on the rare occasion Mum would say “you had better ask your father”, he in turn would say “What did your Mum say?”

In those days it was usually Mum who was the backbone of the family, while Dad silently protects and is for all intents and purposes the hunter gatherer it is Mum who deals with the everyday. The endless stream of things to do, the school stuff, the friend issues, the playground politics, the food and meals, housekeeping, the diaries and timekeeping, the emotional stuff.  For the most part not much has changed.

I use the same system for Tom and Elsie that my Mum used for us. You can go out and see your friends, have fun, mess about and be kids but there are rules, break them and you will punished.

Tom seems to be the one testing it as he is the more adventurous by far.  Elsie is still, at present content to play it safe with her crew, the crew she has been in for probably far too long now.  Tom is still playing fast and loose with anyone, he has mates but they change depending on the activity and the day, he is happy to swap from one group to another, girls or boys, he has no preference as long as he is gadding about somewhere.

I do worry about them when they are not with me, of course I do but I worry more about their behaviour than I do about anything happening to them. As parents we all know the dangers and we all know the risks but you have to let your child learn that those risks will always be there, it is up to them to make informed decisions and choices and they do that with the knowledge that should they make the wrong decision there will be consequences but more than that, there will be hell to pay when I find out.

I got in to scraps as a kid and did some truly stupid stuff, as we all do, mostly stuff that hurt myself not anyone else, like riding down a steep hill on a bike with no brakes, narrowly avoiding being run over.  I’m not sure what hurt the most the gravel rash on my legs or the hiding my Nan gave me when I finally got to her house but mostly we just got up to mischief, writing in places we shouldn’t, bunking off school, stealing the pic ‘n’ mix from Woolworth’s, trying to make fires in the park, annoying people with the music from our ghetto blaster (remember those), another thing that was far bigger than probably necessary and just generally being noisy, irritating kids.

Growing up my childhood wasn’t perfect, nothing is perfect but it was as I remember it a happy mostly carefree time.  I look back on it with a smile and that is what I hope my kids will do.

Things can be harder now for kids, the divide between the haves and have-nots are still there but less easy to forget about than they once were. School life is now a 24/7 thing as home life is overrun with social media and constant infringement from outside.

We wanted all these things and we got them along with trying to find a balance between living in the now and trying to retain some of the simpler things from the past.

We couldn’t live without the internet now, gone are the days of traipsing to library to study for your exams and that is not a bad thing but swimming with your friends in the creek or going to the travelling fair and being spun around on the waltzers until your head spins, those are the things you will remember.

I loved growing up in the 80’s, the music, the movies, everything big and garish, the freedom, the ra-ra skirts and the blue mascara.

My two will grow up in the teens the decade of eyebrows, Trump and… Ummm…  I’m struggling for a third.

I know,  I’m biased nothing will ever beat the 80’s it was my time but then I suppose everyone thinks that about the decade they grew up in.

Kissing with confidence…

There is nothing I like more than a passionate kiss.

You know the sort. It starts slowly, just tasting each other, gently persuasive it should be firm but not forceful, investigative but not invasive and with enough urgency to make your stomach flip-flop and the butterflies come out to play.

A single kiss is one of the most important things in a relationship or the making of one. If you have a disastrous first kiss you are unlikely to want to want to take things any further because and let’s be honest you can not be intimate without kissing. Many think that kissing is in fact the most intimate part of a relationship and I agree.

I have kissed a lot of men and a few women in my time. It is well documented that I have at some points in my life lived a little fast and loose.

Yet until very recently I had only ever really had one bad kiss and that was an unintentional one, on my part at least.

A long time ago when I was in my late teens, I was at a family party with my then boyfriend, it was late and we were doing the rounds saying goodbye to everyone, as you do. I don’t remember being particularly drunk although my boyfriends brother was a fair few sheets to the wind when he decided that as I was closing in for a quick peck on the cheek by way of a cheerio, he would take the opportunity to put one on me. It was bloody awful and I am being polite.

Awful because it was incredibly awkward, we were practically related, I dated his brother for almost ten years. Granted I was a child for the first half of it but we were in effect childhood sweethearts, I suppose therefore it just felt wrong but worse than that, it was just a horrible kiss. His tongue attacked my mouth as if he thought there might be food particles available in there, it was wet, sloppy and incredibly unpleasant.

Over the weekend I had a very similar experience.

I had a second date…

Now, before you get the bunting out, I should add that it was arranged more from a feeling that I should just try, rather than a feeling of excitement in my knickers.

Our first date was a couple of weeks ago now, he was the one who wasn’t very manly. Nice, seemingly very normal, ok chat but just not exactly up there with presence. I would like to be able to explain it better but it was simply that he didn’t look like he had it in him, I just keep coming back to the word nice.

At 46, I didn’t ever think I would ever be in a situation where a date would not know how to kiss someone. I mean they are all around the same age as me, I’m not dating teenagers here, some of them should have a vast amount of experience, if their stories are to be believed. There not many who do not claim to be great stakes in the bedroom department.

The date itself actually went ok, he seemed more comfortable this time, I suppose we both were. At the end of the date he asked if I wanted to go back to his for coffee, I was more than receptive to this idea, we had seemed to get on quite well actually and in an effort to try to see if this would naturally progress in the right direction, I agreed.

I have not made many mistakes in my online dating career, this was to be my first.

It was not a mistake in the sense that I was worried about my safety or that I was concerned that he would take advantage of me. I’m a big girl, I knew, maybe even hoped that there would be some heavy petting, after all I had agreed in principle to going back to his and was more than happy to try a little tenderness and see what happens…

What happened was nothing short of horrifying.

He launched his attack the moment the coffee cups had been placed on the table, leaning over me and bearing down, mouth open and tongue ready for assault, my first mistake was to open my mouth to protest at which point he took full opportunity to plunge right in. His wet tongue making fast circular motions around the inside of mouth, I couldn’t feel his lips at all, just his tongue licking and poking about. His teeth were grating against my skin and they felt sharp, too sharp. I tried to slow him down, coax him to be more gentle, more sensual but no, he was in full washing machine mode and the spin was about to start.

Placing my hands against his chest I shoved him away and told him to slow the f*** down. He apologised, I accepted and reminded him that he invited me here for coffee, not to eat me alive.

This message only seemed to sink for a few moments at a time though as we went through the same motion for around half an hour (it felt like three days). He launched an attack, I suffered it for a few minutes trying desperately to encourage something a little more sensual, not managing, ending with me shoving him back on the sofa again. *rollseyes

I might not have been worried for my safety but at some points I was worried about his as I was beginning to lose my temper with his complete lack of interpersonal skills.

It surprises me that no one has mentioned to him in all his 46 years, at least 20 of which, he has probably been actively snogging, that he was bloody shocking at it. There was no build up to it, it was just straight in tongue first but the tooth thing well, that was just awful.

When we were talking I never noticed anything unusual about his teeth, they looked perfectly normal and believe me it is something I would normally notice but when we were kissing (I’m not sure what else to call it), it felt like he had razor blades tucked away somewhere. I half expected to taste blood.

A horrible kiss is so disappointing, there is nowhere to go from it. From the moment your lips lock with someone, that is the moment you decide whether or not this has potential. It’s the first kiss for God’s sake, it’s this one, this one pivotal moment decides if it will be a yes or no.

It was a resounding NO.

While I was there and even mid kiss, my thoughts were with Mack, yes he’s still there clogging up the back of my mind somewhere. However, the only reason I thought of Mack is because that man could melt chocolate with his lips. Kissing is not a difficult art form and it is, like most things, a horses for courses sport, what one man loves another man will hate but over all most people have the ability to arouse a certain amount of passion in kiss.

Mack and I though, we moulded together when we were kissing and brief as our encounters may have been, his kisses left a lasting impression. Conversation was not mine and Mack’s forte however, and so despite the fact we agreed that for both of us the kissing thing was mind-blowing, frustration kept me at arm’s length and Mack at a loss of what to say most of the time.

In all fairness I don’t think he needed to say anything, I just wanted him to snog my face off but all that has passed now.

I left slightly dazed and confused about my date. More than a little shocked at how it had all turned out, I just wasn’t expecting it to turn out so badly. Part of me wanted to tell him why and the other part of me just couldn’t be the one to tell him. How do you tell someone that their kisses left you cold?

Part of me wanted to say look just sit still and I will show you how to do it. Do not move, let me do all the work and I will show you what you are supposed to feel, let me guide you, be patient, move slowly and you will get the gist. Do what I do but let me do something, don’t overpower me, don’t force me tease me, make me react to you, we are supposed to be responding to each other but I wasn’t brave enough.

I couldn’t tell him, as much as I wanted to. I just made my excuses and left.

Now, I wish I had told him because even though he wouldn’t have liked it, I mean who would, he would know and despite the fact that he probably would have called me a few names and thrown me out it would have been worth it, for him and for his next date.

On the other hand there is always the chance he could meet an equally bad kisser and live happily ever after, going round and round on spin forever, while I limp on in search of someone with a gentler persuasion.


It is Father’s day.

I feel very strongly about Father’s day. However, don’t get me wrong, I am not one to indulge the fact that these days only come once a year.

It is not something I wholeheartedly agree in as it seems there is a day for most things these days and on the whole I think appreciation for the fact that you have a Father, Mother or 2nd cousin twice removed should be shown on more than one occasion throughout the year.

Father’s day is always tinged with a hint of bitterness for me. Bitterness, sadness is that the same thing? I don’t know. I feel sad but I more often feel just a bit bloody pissed off at the unfairness of it all, truth be told.

My Dad passed away 8 years ago now and while it is true what they say about time, you never really get over it, you just learn to live with it. Time just makes it easier. Time allows you to move on and although most days something will happen that will make me think about him or wonder what he would have thought about something, now as the years go by, I can do that without feeling like my world is falling apart.

We can talk about him now, for the most part, without us all ending up in floods of tears, the memories are happy ones and we should be sharing them and remembering how lucky we were.

In a weird way (and not without a feeling of guilt), I have gotten used to him not being around. He is gone and some days I wish more than anything I could change that but I can’t. I often wish I could turn back the clock but even if I could I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I had a good relationship with my Dad, we were not very similar but that may be because he wasn’t my biological father. My biological father is unknown, to me at least but this just makes what my Dad did all the more special.

He married my Mum when I was around 18 months old and since then were a family in the true sense of the word. My two sisters came along shortly after and Mum who absolutely loves babies, children and little people in general would have continued on to have the proverbial football team as she wanted a boy, so she says, I think she just wanted to keep having babies to be honest but my Dad, he was more than happy with his three girls.

Never once did I ever feel like there was anything different about the relationship I had with my Dad in comparison to the one he shared with my sisters, never once did it ever occur to me that he was not my natural father and the only reason for that is because of the way he behaved. He made sure we were all loved in equal amounts. The love and respect I had for him only grew when shortly after my 12th birthday I found out the truth.

My mum insisting that we go for a walk after Sunday lunch and refusing to allow my sisters to come should have been a tell-tale sign that something was about to happen but even then it never crossed my mind it would be anything too serious.

I vaguely remember it, the conversation I mean but only segments I don’t think I could believe it at first. I was just surprised. I couldn’t really put that into words how I was feeling. The good news was my Dad wanted to adopt me officially, the bad news was this meant that we would have to go to the family court and that my mum would have to seek permission from my father in order for us to go ahead.

This notion seems just a ridiculous to me now as it did then. Why on earth do we have to ask a man I don’t know and have never even met permission to sign over a child (me), he clearly has had no interest in for the last 12 years? Well, quite simply it’s because he has rights, apparently. Rights to decide my future, yet no one can force him to be a part of it. He can have a say for as long as he is my Father on paper. All the power with none of the responsibility.

However, the overwhelming feeling at the time was something that only now I recognise as love. Love for a man who always loved me unconditionally in return. A man who watched, encouraged and stood by me as I grew into the woman I am now.

The fact that he wanted to officially be my Dad, to give me his name, which unknowingly at the time, I didn’t have, that he wanted to legally be my father was the most amazing thing to me. Of course he was my father as far as I was concerned, a piece of paper wouldn’t change that but just the fact that he felt so strongly about it made me realise what it is that makes a Dad.

There is a saying that anyone can be a Father but it takes someone special to be a Dad.

With this in mind I feel like I should take some responsibility for my poor choice in this role for my children. I do often blame myself for the predicament I find myself in today because ultimately I suppose I knew we were hardly a match made in heaven. When I met my children’s father it was clear that he may not have been the settling down kind. The idea of it maybe, the reality not so much.

A rocky relationship inevitably led to separation and while I tried to maintain the relationship between him and his children it was not something I could do on my own. He struggled to keep himself on the straight and narrow and so ultimately I offered to relieve him of the burden and he accepted it, stepping out of our lives completely.

It makes me sad that Tom and Elsie have no bond with their father, I wish more than anything that they had a relationship with their Dad like I had with mine. Dad and I were different in every way but he was a constant in my life that I looked up to, respected and loved like no other man. A Rock that silently and strongly held the family in place.

A Dad is like a safety net, someone who is just there all the time, whatever the weather, whenever you need him. He won’t come to you but he will always be there if you go to him, he waits to be the one to say it’s alright just when you need it the most.

As a mother I am strong, protective and ever supportive of Tom and Elsie, we are a unit, an unbreakable threesome with a bond that can only we can break but this does not stop me from wishing that things had turned out differently for them. That they had that father figure.

Today in what some would call strange turn of events, we have been blessed in another way, for we have Ash.

My mum’s husband. A man who for many years I have known and respected. A long time ago growing up he was my best friend’s Dad and now, while unofficially is he not my father, he is a man I have come to love in a similar way.

It takes many things to make a family but the one thing all families share is that constant. A constant familiarity of support and love. That is what Ash brings to our family and while sometimes things are hard to adjust to, I can only be grateful to be able to share him and more importantly for Tom and Elsie to have the male role model they so deserve.

So, for all you Dad’s out there who step up… Thank you.  Thank you for being you and for just simply being there.  Happy Dad’s Day! 🙂

Open wide…

This evening at training, I found myself sitting in the car just listening to the radio, watching the boys train and trying to catch up on reading a few blogs.

I am usually hastily trying to put a blog together myself while Tom is training, it is an ideal opportunity due to the peace and tranquility of my surroundings and the fact that I have to sit in one place for at least an hour but tonight I am organised.  I have prepared and just need to fill in the blanks before I can post.

It had turned in to a really lovely evening.  I sometimes dread the rushing required to get to training  so this evening I was more than happy to just sit, watching the trains go by and with the music on I put my feet up and zoned out for a bit.

By the time training had finished I was completely chilled out.  A momentary feeling that did not last.

For you see the disadvantage of listening to the radio for over an hour with your engine off is that when you want to start your bloody car it won’t work. Wanting to smack myself around the head with something heavy for not even registering the fact that this could be a possibility I trudged off to find some assistance. Luckily coach was still putting his balls away, so giving it my best damsel in distress impression I begged for help.

Assuming that someone would have some jump leads, I felt sure I would be on my way in no time.  These are men after all, they are fully equipped for all things car related, surely?  It would seem not.  Perks of having cars less than five years old expect.  Luckily the one thing men can’t leave home without is their brute strength.  So it looked like it was going to a be a hefty shove down a steep hill, or to be more precise a roll over the grass verge on to the slightly sloping field ahead.

Preparing myself for the mission I suddenly had the fleeting thought that just as I was about to gain momentum I am likely to completely fuck it up, not lifting my foot off the clutch while pressing down on the accelerator, therefore coming to a spluttering halt and before you know it I will be stuck, stationary, in the middle of a very flat, nicely manicured, cricket pitch.

Then the realisation hit me.  I am a pro at this.  I have had some cars over the years and they have mostly been the clapped out variety,  30 seconds in and coasting nicely over the grass verge I lifted my foot off the clutch and we were away, fist pumping the air as we went.  Even Tom was exhilarated, excitedly shouting that we should do a few hand brake turns on the grass while we have opportunity and I have to say I was sorely tempted, only the frown from the green keeper as we flew by arms in air put me off.

Tom is having another growth spurt.

Either that or he is just a bloody pig. I have never known one so small to be quite so hungry all of the time. During the holidays he ate like a horse. I put this mostly down to him being within spitting distance of a fridge but it does not seem to be wearing off.

He is surely of an age now where he should be more than capable of fixing his own, toast, drinks, snacks etc. You know, at least being able to manoeuver around the kitchen without disaster following close behind. This does not however, seem to be the case.
While I do not wish to wait on my children hand and foot and would really like them to show some initiative in the kitchen, and elsewhere for that matter, sometimes it is just bloody easier to do it myself than put myself and everyone else, not least of all the neighbours, through the aftermath of me shouting like woman possessed at the sheer carnage in my kitchen.

The stress of watching Tom just make a bowl of chocolate hoops is enough to put me on blood pressure meds. Only yesterday he dropped the lot, the whole bag slid out the box and on to the work top, then while trying to catch the bag the rest went all over the floor. The worst of it is that he just stands and looks at me like ‘how did that happen’ while I try my utmost not to put my hands around his throat.

So far this week alone he has had an episode with an exploding bottle of pop, laid an open milk carton down in fridge (because of course that isn’t going to leak everywhere), broke a glass and dropped a plate on his, now very black, toe. He takes the last sausage roll and leaves the empty packet in the fridge and the other day I found the butter in the cupboard next to the plates.  He has no recollection of even using the butter.  Why? Why?  The chocolate hoops were the final straw.  I am seeking an injunction.

Both Tom and Elsie are growing, soon I will once again be the shortest member of my entire family.  I stood next to Elsie the other day, picking her up from a friend’s house and noticed she is a good inch or so taller than me now. In flip-flops (which Elsie hates and I love) I look like the child. Ok, only from behind, granted.

Elsie is becoming very particular about being seen with me, especially if I am not wearing suitable clothing or I have got the dreaded flip-flops on.  I do not have issue with this, do you want a lift or don’t you?  No one gives a monkeys what I look like to be honest and I rarely get out the car, so forgive me if I don’t change from my sitting in the garden vest, shorts and flip-flops into more suitable attire for chauffering you around my darling.

Monday saw me in a pretty foul mood.  I had my period.  Not altogether a complete surprise but not entirely expected either as I have had the coil fitted.  I had heard that they can take a while to settle and that you may, or may not get bleeding and or spotting, on and off for a few months until it regulates to something more manageable.  I was fine with this as more manageable is definitely what I was hoping for.  So throwing in the added bonus of it also being a reliable form of contraception, should anyone ever feel inclined to have sex with again anytime soon, I made the decision to go for it.

After years of regular smear tests I was aware that I had a curve in my cervix, lopsided I think it was called once. However my curve has apparently turned in to a corner.  On the day it felt more like a sharp bend than a corner, you know the kind that should have a chevron warning sign attached to it.

Making small talk while someone is furiously trying to fight their way up your vagina is not the easiest thing in the world to do and harder still when you know the nurse.  I always said I would never work in the surgery where I am a patient for me it would just be too awkward. However staff do move around and one of the nurses that used to work with us now works at my surgery, she is lovely and very good at her job however, this does not mean I want her to see my fanny.

Ideally, I don’t want anyone to see my fanny but I especially don’t want people I am friends with on Facebook to see it.

So while we caught up with the goings on at the both surgeries and talked about our kids and how much time had passed since she left, the lady Doctor in charge of proceedings was furiously burrowing away down below trying to gain access to my cervix and it was fair to say she was struggling.  ‘It’s not very straight‘ she declared.

It was quite hard to have a conversation at all to be honest as it was becoming more than a little painful.  When she asked the nurse to get an extra long speculum it was clear this was not going to be as straightforward as I’d hoped. How long is extra long? I already felt like I could start letting large vehicles through.

Really? Ok forget the coil, can I just have hysterectomy instead it will be a lot less painful.

It could be said that I swear, quite a bit actually.  How I managed not swear while all this was going on I really don’t know.  Just at the point where I was about to say, ‘excuse but do you think you could take your arm out of my vagina, it really is becoming a little sore‘  there was triumphant sound from the business end of proceedings as a smiling Doctor appeared through my legs to inform me it was in.  Thanks heavens for that.

I’d like to say I didn’t feel a thing but I’d be lying.  Congratulated all round for not making any fuss whatsoever (well I am British, it is just not the done thing), I tried valiantly to hang on to what little bit of dignity I had left, while pulling on my big knickers and popping a pad in, just in case.

When I come back next time, it will not be as a woman.  I don’t care what I am, as long as I am not a woman.


Isn’t it ironic…

I still feel like there is something not quite right in my world.

What that actually is though is still a little bit beyond me, I have no idea why I feel the way I do but I do feel like there is something missing in my life.

Maybe I am just at that weird junction in life, slightly before 50, kids growing up and becoming a lot less dependant but not totally independent and feeling like you don’t really have a purpose.  I mean obviously I am still chief cook and bottle washer but otherwise what am I?

I am oddly also a lone singleton.  By that I mean that my friends, with exception of some work colleagues, who I do sometimes socialize with, are all married or in relationships.  While I respect the fact that they are all married and can not entertain me at the drop of a hat, I do feel marginally isolated.  It feels like I have friends but I can only see them at certain times and this is usually when it is convenient for them and their partners/husbands and not just to suit me.  I get that of course I do but I miss having a group of friends to socialize with I suppose.

I am serial dating I feel like I have been out a lot of late, probably because I have but it isn’t the same.  It is not the same as going out for dinner with a friend or having a few drinks with friends, I just miss those casual, adhoc things and I know it is because I don’t have a man in my life.  If I did I probably wouldn’t be so bothered, would I?

I have always believed that friends are very important.  Good friends are hard to come by and as you get older your friendship groups dwindle slightly as you are more selective, you move around, settle away from your home town or change careers.  I love having good friends.  What am I talking about I DO have good friends.

I suppose it hit home a bit today maybe as I was sitting in another lovely pub garden a few miles from home this time and thinking how lovely it was.

My date was ok too, I should just throw that in quickly.

However, I did drift away from the conversation a little, while thinking how lovely and probably a lot more relaxing it would be to be sitting here in this lovely new pub that I have never been to before, not on a date.  Just eating cheesy chips and discussing how many white wine spritzers we can have before we can not drive home, with my girlfriends.  Maybe even eyeing up the group of young men that just happened to be sitting opposite us in the garden..

… just like the old days.

As a result of having slightly more time on my hands I have been trying to concentrate more on my writing and have started dabbling with a few short stories but this really is time-consuming and although I feel like I have more time, I still have demands on it. Interruptions can be plentiful and the pick up, put down thing just doesn’t work, you end up re-writing the same bits over and over again because you are not entirely focused.

I have three stories on the go already, none of which are close to being finished. I have a hundred beginnings to a story but not a single end.  At this rate it will be a collection of unfinished works, probably found when I die.

It has been another week of dating.  Today’s date was fine, they are always fine.  Actually that’s a lie as on Thursday I had my best date so far.

I wasn’t sure about this one to start with.

His messages were good, they had content and were funny and informative and contained more than one paragraph. Unusual. We exchanged numbers and sticking to my new rule of not messaging for days on end, we arranged to meet fairly quickly.  I had no idea what he looked like at this point.

After we exchanged numbers he sent a picture, so that I would know who to look for, always helpful when meeting someone for the first time.  He had no hair.  I am just going to say that his photo didn’t do him any favours and leave it there.  It goes without saying that I had already imagined what he looked like and it also goes without saying that I wasn’t anywhere close to right.  No surprises there.

In between us arranging the date and actually having it we messaged as and when, nothing heavy.  A couple of days beforehand he suggested we meet for drinks at The Ivy. I suggested that was a tad extravagant but he was not changing his mind.

As the date rolled closer though I started to change my mind.  I didn’t fancy him, should I just cancel?  What if he didn’t turn up anyway?  Can I really be bothered to keep going on all these bloody dates?

I messaged him.  Half hoping to not get a reply but then not actually getting a reply.  How dare he!  What was I going to do now, get ready or not?  I decided not and moped about for a bit instead, actually a bit pissed off.  Then at 6.55 pm my phone went.

Hi, sorry on train but will be there, 7.30 as planned.

Shit! I won’t I’m sitting in my dressing gown feeling bloody sorry for myself actually.

Bugger! I will be late. Sorry. Hadn’t heard from you so wasn’t sure..

That doesn’t sound sad at all!

Take your time. I don’t want you to rush, we have all night.

Now I feel like a complete shit.

I do not reply because I only have about 7 and a half minutes to get ready.  Luckily I had at least dried my hair and started my make-up.  I was ready in what can only be a personal best for me and out the door by 7.25 pm.  That is pretty damn fast even by my standards and I am not one to faff about.

I parked the car and walked to the restaurant.  I felt quite relaxed considering I was going to be walking in on my own and wasn’t entirely sure who I was looking for, despite the previous unflattering picture.  As I entered the restaurant the guy on the door smiled at me, young and very handsome, I smiled back and told him I was meeting a friend, just as my friend appeared at my side.

I was immediately pleasantly surprised and the best bit about that is that the evening continued to pleasantly surprise, he was everything I knew he would be charming, polite, funny and intelligent.  What I wasn’t sure about was if I would be attracted to him.  After all I have a thing about hair.  Or should I say had a thing about hair.  Not conventionally handsome in the tall, dark and exotic way, he definitely had something.

He had that thing that all men should have, I don’t know what that is exactly but he had it in spades.  A confident, assured manner he was entirely at ease with himself.  He was clearly a genuinely nice guy and effortlessly likeable but with an air of understated masculinity.  I was bowled over and that does not happen often.

There really wasn’t anything not to like, great venue, a few drinks and even better company.  I liked him.  I have to say I could have sat there all night but alas the evening came to an end.

The irony is however, he didn’t want to pursue things.  He was of course lovely about and even messaged me later to say how totally lovely he thought I was, although clearly not lovely enough. *rollseyes

When he walked me to my car he said that he thought we might be looking for different things, it is what everyone says when you are either not their type or they just simply don’t think you are the one.  So other than throw myself at his feet wailing and begging to be given a second chance (which I did think about for a minute or two),  I had to take it on the chin.  Those are the rules.

I have thought about him a lot though.  I don’t know if anything would have happened had we had a second date.  I will never know.  Even if we had it may not have gone anywhere after that but the thing with first dates is that they are such a small part of something.  Something big, something small,  who knows?  It is never given wings long enough to find out.

My date today called it a pre-date date, it is just a meeting to see if there is any chance you might want to see each other again but then he said, which I have to say I liked a lot,  that you have two ends of a spectrum.  At the top end is ‘Oh my God he/she is gorgeous I have to see them again,’ then at the bottom is ‘I would rather the population became extinct than have to reproduce with this person‘ and then there is everything in between.

It is unlikely that you will experience the top or the bottom end on every date but you may experience something in the middle.  Only meeting again will allow you to decide whether you will climb up the spectrum or slide down it.

Before we began our pre-date, I wouldn’t have said this guy would be my type but let’s be honest here for just for a moment.  I have been on a fair few dates now and apart from Mr Dynamic, last Thursday I haven’t been particularly bothered about seeing any of them again.  Admittedly there have been a couple along the way whom I thought yes, maybe but if it happened it happened and if it didn’t, so be it.  Surely I just should just start going with it, if he hasn’t been backhanded by a shovel, makes for a good conversation and it looks like you might enjoy spending time together then we just try it, do we?

If you only have three more dates then call it a day where is the harm?  You might have half a dozen dates and enjoy every single one, you might not but you have to get past this tendency to pooh-pooh everyone at the first hurdle, don’t you?

The irony is of course that the ones you want, don’t want you, this is just the way the world works.

I was chatting to a guy the other day who said that he preferred brunettes and always found them very attractive but had only ever dated blondes.  I can’t quite get my head around the whys and wherefores of what make someone attractive to another all I know is you generally end up with the complete opposite of what you thought you were looking for it seems.

So with that in mind am I any clearer about anything?  Am I bollocks.

So my date just texted me and asked me where he was on the spectrum.  I have gone with 7, that is good is it?  I think 7 is good enough for a second go.  He will probably come back with a 3 now and that will be me told.


Little fish…

I have left myself a bit of catching up to do.

It feels like an age since I last blogged.  I stress about not blogging but I try not to, I want to enjoy blogging and not for it to become a chore, I have enough chores in my life, thank you very much.

However, much has happened and I feel like I may rush through it all without properly detailing some things or I may miss some things entirely.  This is the trouble I suppose when you just leave it too long in between.  I may on the other hand ramble on for hours and end up not posting until midnight.

We will just have to play it by ear and see what happen.  Lets just wing it.


I consider myself a fairly confident person.

Therefore, I try to teach my children to be confident particularly around older children, other peer groups and in adult situations too.  Being confident is not to be confused with being arrogant.  My children are in no way arrogant or rude, at least not while I am in earshot.  They wouldn’t dare.

They have respect for others and have been taught to treat people how they in turn expect to be treated.  This does not mean that are told they should like everyone or that they should swallow any rude or aggressive behaviours towards them without speaking out.

It is important to teach our children how to live in the real world, how to coexist with others, that not every situation will go their way. To have courage and humility to be strong but kind.  To stick up for what you believe is right, to speak and to listen.

It is not always easy.

Sunday, as is normal now, we were up at unreasonable o’clock for another football tournament.  This week Tom was once again helping out the under 13’s who were playing two teams in the tournament however, unlike last weekend when a few of the lads from his team were playing, this week were on our own.  Eek!

Tom is only 12 and for all the swagger he generally displays at home and when he is among his ‘squad’ he still shows quite obvious signs of discomfort when he is out of his comfort zone.  Seemingly always fine all the time he is with me, his security blanket but once he was away from me and with boys he didn’t really know, playing matches against some really good teams, you could see he was struggling to keep his head up.

The trouble is that I am out of my comfort zone too.  I am like a fish out of water at football.

However, as an adult I can put on a face, I have had plenty of practice and have an outer confidence that belies the little voice inside me saying, she doesn’t know.  The little girl inside me that just wants to go and find a nice quiet spot to sit in until it is all over.

I still have the single mum hang up.  I know I should be used to it by now, it’s not like this is a new thing for me but honestly it feels like I wear a neon signs sometimes.  However, I can’t hide because my son needs me.  He needs me to support him and encourage him and be his shoulder when he feels defeated under pressure.

Today I heard parents and children alike not being particularly sporting or showing any consideration when talking about other teams and players.  Two parents having a full-blown row with each other and their son in full view of everyone even going so far as calling each other names. Then during the handshakes at the end of some matches it was reported that a few of the teams were taunting the losers with ‘you’re shit’ as they were smiling and shaking hands.

I know that this is a predominantly male dominated sport and because of that it is highly competitive and that some are very passionate about it.  I am extremely competitive myself, I do not play games to lose, I play to win.  Who doesn’t?  I am not in the ‘it’s the taking part that counts’ camp but I am in the ‘if you don’t have anything constructive to say mate, I suggest you shut the f*** up.’

There is a motto in all the programmes for these games and tournaments that reminds everyone that these are in fact children, that the coaches are volunteers and the referees are human, enjoy, support and encourage.  Maybe an increase in font size wouldn’t go a miss before the next tournament pamphlet is printed.

The weekend saw glorious weather again but over all the weather over half term was decidedly hit and miss.  The gloriously sunny days of blue skies and light breezes we were experiencing throughout May suddenly replaced by hot, sticky and stormy with torrential downpours for good measure.  Jesus but we have had some rain.

I love a good storm but I do prefer them at night and preferably like them to have moved on before morning, leaving a beautiful clear blue sky behind them. These however, have been rumbling around for days and nights, enough already!

So far we have only managed one trip to the beach and at one point I didn’t think we were even going to get that.  It was our first trip this year, despite having had all this lovely weather as both Tom and Elsie claim to be too old for the beach now.

Too old for the beach my arse. Who is ever too old for the beach?

Judging by their cranky behaviour while we were there, I would say not Tom and Elsie. They might think they are too cool for school, or whatever the expression is but they are just kids at heart, as well they should be.

Throwing themselves fully clothed in to the freeing cold sea, laughing and shouting at each other on the bumper cars, screaming with excitement at finally wining a Darth Vader figure from the 2 p machines (actual cost in 2 p’s probably around £13) and taking opportunity to eat as many sugar-coated things as humanly possible in the time we were there.  No, they don’t like the seaside at all, those two.

Apart a from a painful walk barefoot on the pebbles there wasn’t anything not to like.  We stayed late in to the evening and had fish and chips on the beach, fighting of the seagulls until the sun went down.  Bliss

The next morning we awoke to rain like we had rarely seen before.  Flash flooding and all sorts.  What?  Sink holes appearing in roads and swimming pools instead of back gardens!

Friday morning the sun re-appeared, perfect timing as usual.  I decided to get out in the garden.  The trouble with sun, then rain, then sun again is that the grass bloody loves it.  Just as I was marvelling at how well I getting on the lawn mower came to a shuddering halt.  I had been thinking  to myself  that it wasn’t sounding particularly healthy half way round but not being very mechanically minded I carried on regardless, until with just half the front lawn to go it finally gave up the ghost.

I wasn’t quite sure whether to have a full-blown tantrum, you know the who cares who’s watching kind, or whether I should just lay down on the grass and weep.  Couldn’t it have just let me finish the last little bit.  It is not just the fact that I didn’t get to finish the grass, it is more the fact that I can’t afford a new mower.  Or at least I have many other priorities on the long list of things I could do with the money it will cost to replace the damn thing.

Admitting defeat I decided to meditate in the garden for an hour with a large vodka and tonic before getting cleaned up.  I had a date later that would cheer me up.  Famous last words.

It was actually a very nice date.  The sun was out and so we met in the beer garden of a fairly local pub and very pleasant it was too.  He was nice looking and has to be up there in top three of best looking guys so far but before you get carried away, I am still not sure.. well, what did you expect, really!

He is yet another who is quite hard to describe.  I want to call him soft.  Softly spoken, he had a soft manner about him, he was tall and fairly slim and despite his greying hair looked very young but he just seemed small.  He wasn’t, which just makes it all the more weird.

In the past I have preferred slim men, I would not usually go for someone who is too tall, in an overbearing or overweight way, neither do I like the body-builder type. Slim but toned has always been my thing.   So what was the problem?

Oh!  You expected an answer?

We seemed to get on well, the chat was easy going.  He was nice, normal even and seemed like a safe bet, he was keen to have a second date, I was hesitant.  However, since then we have stayed in touch, albeit sporadically, we have mentioned the whole second date thing again but it is looking unlikely that will be able to meet until next weekend, due to our commitments.  To my way of thinking if we can maintain some contact until then, which is over a week and obviously someone doesn’t come along and sweep me off my feet in the meantime (hahahaha), then I may as well.

Maybe a second date will help us both decide?

Monday saw us all back in the routine of school and work.  I caught up with the buddies which is always the highlight of any Monday to be honest and tried to catch up with everything I had missed over the week.  It always takes a good few cups of coffee to get back in to the work vibe and at times it seemed like a long, slow day.

In the evening I had a date.  I know they are coming in thick and fast all of a sudden.  It is me, I am pushing to meet now.  I am done with idle chit-chat, you want to meet see if we like each other, or not?  Either way I am not messing about for weeks on end with endless questions about hobbies or fending off your requests to see what I look like in my best set of matching underwear.

Meet me or find someone else to irritate.

So he met me, Tallboy that is.  His height clearly hinted at in his nickname.  He was exactly what I have just been describing as NOT my type.  Tall, 6ft 2 ins to be precise and large, not overweight just big.  Like the BFG but with a beard.  I like beards I have decided.

We met at the same pub I went to on Friday, I think they are starting to recognise me now.  It is also the same pub we sometimes frequent if we go for a drink after work.  I will have my own tankard soon.  On it will not be my name, just the words ‘serial dater’ or ‘sad and single’ something along those lines.  I am going to have to start thinking of some other places to go soon.

Tallboy was nice.  Yep another nice one.  We seemed to have quite a lot in common, we laughed quite a bit and the conversation flowed easily.  I felt too at ease with him, my language was slipping and I mentioned washing my fanny with a flannel.  Is it a good sign to be this comfortable?  I felt like I was out with a mate.  I didn’t fancy him but I liked him.

He was not the snappiest dresser, he wore brown combat trousers, a white t-shirt and a brown zip up cardigan with trainers that looked more like slippers.  There wasn’t a moment when I thought oh he looks nice, or he has lovely eyes or a lovely anything really, there was no moment, not for me anyway.

I forgot my purse, which I didn’t discover until I went to buy the next drink, I apologised profusely and he was very gracious about it.  I have never forgotten my purse as do always like to at least offer to buy a drink or pay for dinner (on the rare occasion you actually meet anyone who wants to have dinner) even if they do decline.

Then to make matters worse I realised that we had run over time.  Love island was about to start.  I mean who in their right mind organises a date the same night the new series of Love island starts.   I was horrified when I realised my error but it was too late to back out, besides I am well and truly in let’s get this done and dusted mode.  I rather slurped than sipped my last drink in an effort to move things along a bit and then made a bolt for the door.  Well a swift walk.  I didn’t want to appear rude but I needed to get home.

Elsie and I were addicted to Love island last year and we have been looking forward to this for ages.  I could not be late.  I was late and missed the coupling up, luckily Elsie forgave me and talked me through the newly formed and extremely gorgeous couples.

When Tallboy walked me the two feet to my car he told me that he would like to see me again but that he would leave it up to me to let him know what I wanted to do.  I said I would, thanked him for a lovely evening and sped off in a cloud of dust.  😉

I don’t think I will be seeing him again, he just wasn’t for me.

That is not to say he wasn’t nice because he was.  Jesus, nice really is becoming my favourite word.  Nice seems to be everywhere.  I always say there is nothing wrong with nice but if that really is the case then why don’t I want it?

Maybe I am not ready, maybe I am still too protective of myself and my little fish.